


It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

by CheapLemonIceLolly



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 22:45:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8942482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapLemonIceLolly/pseuds/CheapLemonIceLolly
Summary: Who the fuck gets a concussion putting up office Christmas lights, Dylan wonders.  Nobody is that Extra.  Then he looks up at Connor and realizes he knows at least one other person who is most definitely that Extra.In which Connor wages war against Sidney Crosby in the office's best Christmas decoration competition and poor Dylan just hopes they all make it through the holidays in one piece.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry! Sid doesn't get concussed in the fic, it's just a reference to past events.

You can’t be a genius at data entry, because that’s ridiculous, but Connor is.

Dylan’s pretty sure of both of these things. He’s also pretty sure that it’s not normal to take a temp assignment this seriously, but it’s become clear to him by now that Connor’s not actually capable of half-assing anything. It probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise when the agency assigned both of them to a new role and Connor ended up in a supervising position by the end of the first day. He’s just that sort of person.

He’s not officially the leader of their ad hoc team of temps, but that’s only because none of them have contracts past the middle of next year. Their team is so temporary that they don't even have a real office, just a classroom of computer desks set up in a big horseshoe, each one piled with forms and messy paperwork for processing. Everyone knows Connor’s in charge all the same, keeping track of the group's workload, interfacing with the Special Projects team who are managing the new database implementation, and troubleshooting problems as they come up, which they do all the time. He knew the system inside out within a week of their staff induction session. If there’s something one of them doesn’t know how to do, they ask Connor, and a lot of the permanent staff do too.

Basically, if there was a position called Data Jesus, he’d be it.

Sometimes Dylan watches Connor’s long fingers flying over the keyboard, his brow furrowed with concentration, and gets the nagging feeling they should be doing something else. Is student administration really the right outlet for all that talent and drive? The feeling always passes eventually, though; most people don't get to be extraordinary or exciting. People are mostly just mediocre, or good at things in really ordinary ways.

For the most part, he’s content with trailing in the shadow of his unnecessarily talented best friend (seriously, who is talented at _data entry?_ ). A little more job security’d be nice, but there’s no rush. It’ll come in time.

And if Dylan sometimes enjoys watching Connor work more than is strictly warranted by his impressive work ethic alone, well, that’s just a job perk. Nobody has to know about it.

Everything starts to come unstuck when one of the guys comes back from break on the first of December waving a flyer he obviously pulled off a notice board in the break room and announces there's an institute-wide office decorating competition for Christmas. First prize, free movie tickets for everyone on the winning team.

“Oh yeah,” says Mitch brightly. “I heard this place goes wild about the holidays. They go all out on the decorating competition. The penguins won it last year,”

Mitch somehow seemed to know someone in every department of the institute within a couple of weeks of their team being set up, so he's constantly producing bits of office gossip and Dylan hardly ever knows who he's talking about. But this is obscure even for him. “Penguins?” says Dylan, squinting at him.

“The Special Projects team,” Mitch clarifies. “You know,” He sticks his arms out stiffly and does a little robotic dance that is probably supposed to look like a penguin waddling, his eyebrows shooting up. “Penguin suits.”

“Penguin suits are tuxedos, not normal suits,” Dylan points out, but Mitch just waves him off.

“Penguins,” Connor says slowly. Then he breaks into a grin that lights up his entire face, that smile that shows too many teeth to be anything but hopelessly goofy and yet makes Dylan’s stomach swoop. “That’s hilarious.”

Mitch looks smug. Dylan wants to point out that the joke doesn't even make sense, penguins are black and white and most of the guys who work in Special Projects wear, like, charcoal and blue and shit. He’s pretty sure he saw Kris Letang in a pink shirt yesterday. But he bites his tongue.

Nobody in Data Entry wears a suit to work, because most of them are barely adults and they're a roughly coordinated rabble of temps hidden away in a repurposed classroom, so professionalism is not as high a priority as comfort. Connor used to wear slacks and button down shirts for the first week or so, because he's a Good Boy, but even he switched to jeans soon enough.

Right now he's chewing on the drawstring of his hoodie and looking pensive, and it's kind of adorable. Dylan's trying to pretend he hasn't noticed.

“Hmm,” says Connor, thoughtful. “All out, huh?” He holds out a hand for the flyer. “What’s the prize again?”

“Uh oh,” says Dylan. Connor gives him a wide-eyed look of perfect innocence, the lace of his hoodie still tucked into the corner of his mouth. It’s unfair how good he looks, but Dylan will not be moved. “No way,” he says firmly. “I know that look. You’re gonna get carried away and everything will be crazy and I am not wearing fucking…tinsel and reindeer antlers to work. Let the peng—the _Projects Team_ win.”

“Stromerrrrrrr,” Connor whines.

“No way,” says Dylan, decisive. “You’re too competitive as it is. I’m not going to enable your pathological need to win things by letting you turn Christmas into a spectator sport as well.”

*

At least, Dylan reflects, eyeing himself in the murky reflection of his monitor as the computer boots up, he managed to talk his way out of the tinsel. The red felt antlers make him about seven feet tall but as long as he takes them off before he tries to walk through any doors he'll be fine.

It’s not that Dylan doesn’t like winning things. Who doesn’t like winning things? It’s just that he’s, well, he’s normal. Really good at a few things, like karaoke (no matter what Mitch says) and putting together Ikea furniture without looking at the instructions, mediocre at most stuff, the same as anybody is. He’ll go hard at something that really matters, of course he will, but he’s not weird about it. Connor...Connor is weird about it.

The problem is that Connor is good at everything, literally everything, and he’s so used to being good at everything that he doesn’t know how to scale back and do things in a normal human way. Everything’s always 110% with him. It’s kind of amazing, but it’s also fucking exhausting.

“It’s not even like there’s any point to wearing costumes,” Dylan gripes to Hilary in the break room, waiting for the microwave to finish. “We’re back office, the only people who’re going to see us are other staff anyway.”

Hils gives him a reassuring pat. “Just go with it, kiddo,” she says, grinning. “It’s only another few weeks. Besides, with McDavid in charge I reckon Data Entry's got the competition in the bag. Have you seen Student Services? It's pathetic.”

As it happens, Dylan _has_ seen Student Services, because Connor made him come on a reconnaissance mission that morning. Or, rather, Connor smiled and said he was going to go check out the decorations down at the service desk and Dylan trailed after him like a puppy because he's fucking weak. He makes a noncommittal noise.

“Oh I don't know,” Amanda chimes in from the coffee machine. “Special Projects was incredible last year and they'll be pulling out all the stops this time. You know Sid. The same department hasn't won the Christmas decorating competition two years in a row for ages, he's not going to pass up a chance to be the best at something in a new and exciting way.”

“Ah well,” says Hilary. “Second place is still good, right?”

Dylan imagines the look on Connor’s face if he ever heard someone say “second place is still good” and chokes on nothing.

“I don’t think you’ve got any other serious competition,” Hilary goes on. “The Student Welfare department have really half-assed it; they've just stuck silver stars on everything. But Seggy keeps turning up for work in a sexy elf costume, so I guess they're hoping for the cheesecake vote.”

She shows Dylan a slightly blurry photo on her phone, featuring a lot of leg in green-and-white-striped tights.

“Is...is he wearing pants?” says Dylan, squinting.

“Don't think so!” Hils says cheerfully.

Dylan hopes nobody tells Connor that courting the cheesecake vote is an option. He’s not sure his heart could take it.

*

Student Services and their half-assed approach to life seems to extend beyond pathetic holiday decorations. Dylan holds up a form for Connor to see, with a post-it stuck to the front that just says “SOMETHING IS WRONG??!”

“Oh, that's nothing,” Connor laughs. “Yesterday I saw one that just had a frowny face and the word HELP with eight exclamation points. You need help going through it?”

Dylan doesn't, but he says yes anyway because, well, never mind why. Connor comes over and stands behind him, arms folded on the back of Dylan's chair, and makes helpful suggestions as Dylan works out the confusing tangle of data that Student Services have left in their wake, occasionally leaning in to point at something on the screen or type in a query. 

Dylan could do the query typing himself, of course, but the heat of Connor's breath on the side of his neck is distracting. Every time he speaks it's soft and low right next to Dylan's ear, because he's considerate and doesn't want to deafen Dylan by talking so close, and every time it's like Dylan's limbs forget how to function properly.

It takes nearly an hour to work out what the problem actually is, and then only ten minutes to fix it, by which point Dylan is kind of a mess. Connor straightens up, patting him on the shoulder, and heads back to his own desk, leaving Dylan feeling cold and bereft without the warm weight of Connor's forearm against the back of his neck.

It's pathetic, is what it is. Craving the attention of someone who is already his friend and already pays him plenty of attention is just sad, and he's never going to do anything about it so he should stop torturing himself like this. But he's still watching covertly as Connor gets back to his own spot a few desks away and starts shuffling papers. Connor's face goes all focused and serious when he's concentrating, mouth slightly open and lashes shading a dark gold fan across his cheeks.

Dylan sighs, and it must have been louder than he thought, because Mitch's head jerks up beside him and he says, “What?”

Dylan's brain stalls for a moment as it gets stuck on the impossibly honest answer: _oh, just got lost fantasizing about kissing my best friend again, must be Tuesday_. He coughs, hopes he isn't blushing, and flicks through his emails hoping a more work appropriate answer will assert itself. Finally, he spots a meeting alert and latches onto it.

“We’ve got that meeting with…” he hesitates, glancing across at Connor. “with the penguins today, right?”

Connor doesn’t look up but he snorts. “Penguins,” he hiccups softly, wrinkling his nose, and it’s probably the most adorable thing Dylan’s ever seen.

Somehow, Dylan doesn’t know why, calling the project team “penguins” happens to stick after that point.

*

Dylan remembers to be nervous as he, Connor and Mitch arrive on the third floor after lunch. Everyone from the Data Entry team is supposed to be there, but of course they're early because Connor is Connor and can't help himself. The problem is that the Special Projects team are kind of intimidating. Dylan's not really into networking and meetings and stuff like that; he'd rather just stick to the people he knows and get on with doing his job. Unfortunately the head of Special Projects, Sid, is _really into_ teamwork, and it spreads over into his interactions with every other team as well.

Of course, Connor thinks Sid's amazing and tries to instil the same freakishly close-knit team identity thing in the Data Entry guys as well, but so far everyone's too casual for it to work. Dylan is convinced Connor will be a terrifyingly charismatic leader type one day too, in his own quietly intense kind of way, but he's not quite there yet. Dylan is also convinced the rest of the Data Entry team will be late to this meeting.

“They can’t claim the conference room as a decorating space as well, can they?” Connor frowns up at the Christmas decorations. “That’s not fair.”

“They’re the Special Project penguins,” Mitch shrugs, chewing on his pen. “They can do whatever they want.”

They certainly have. The entrance to the conference room – which, Connor is muttering mutinously, is not technically part of the Special Projects office, it’s just on the same floor – has been dressed up like a gingerbread house, with a huge cardboard cutout of a cottage framing the door. The cardboard house is bedecked with brightly colored candy and the peaked roof is dusted with glitter that looks like powdered sugar.

Dylan takes one look at Connor's face, remembers what Amanda said about Sid and the decorating competition, and feels a sort of sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He can see where this is going.

Mitch, blithely unconcerned, plucks a candy cane off one of the pink shuttered windows and sticks it in his mouth. Dylan and Connor stare at him.

“What?” he says stickily.

“How did they get this up so quickly?” Connor frowns as they head into the empty conference room and find seats. “Are they recycling last year’s decorations?”

“I don’t think so,” says Mitch around his candy cane. “I heard the conference room had a Frozen theme last year. Crosby probably just didn’t sleep last night so he could get decorations done. That guy works even harder than you, Davo. I wouldn’t be surprised if he stayed here overnight just to make Christmas decorations.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Dylan says, jabbing Connor in the side. He gets a glare in reply.

The penguins (Dylan’s even doing it in his head now) arrive at exactly one o’clock and enter the room in single file which is just…fucking typical. Also typical, the rest of the Data Entry team are late, and turn up in a ragged stream across the next five minutes, mumbling “sorry Davo” with various degrees of sincerity as they come. Sid and a tall, sleepy-looking guy Dylan doesn’t know actually wait outside the room for them all to turn up, like teachers rounding up tardy schoolkids.

When Sid finally comes in, trailed by the tall guy like some kind of bodyguard, the only seats left are next to Dylan, so he ends up sandwiched between the two team leaders, feeling wildly awkward and out of place. Sid takes out, seriously, eight ballpoint pens and lines them up in a perfectly neat row on his left side before he picks one up again, takes the cap off and says, with no hint of obvious sarcasm, “Alright, is everyone here?”

Connor sits up a little straighter, and does a valiant job of not looking too ashamed of his haphazard rabble of a team. On his other side, Mitch is doodling in his notebook and doing something borderline pornographic with his tongue at the same time; Dylan is pretty sure he has no idea he’s doing it. Someone should get that kid a chapstick.

The meeting’s fine, just consolidating what Data Entry needs to get done by the holiday shut down and how Special Projects can better support them. Dylan’s not sure why everyone needs to be there, since it’s mostly Sid and Connor doing the talking while the penguins look intimidating and the Data Entry team look like a mess. At least Connor makes them seem reasonably organized.

Dylan takes notes diligently as the team leaders either side of him hash out targets and deadlines, because it’s less awkward than just sitting there like an idiot while they talk over his head, until his pen runs out halfway through a word.

“Can I just—“ he reaches for the one of the seven pens neatly lined up on the table above Sid's left hand. It’s really an absurd number of pens to bring to a meeting, Dylan thinks; nobody needs more than one spare at the very most. Obviously they're there in case other people forgot to bring one? But before he can take a pen, Sid’s hand comes up lightning fast and fastens on his wrist.

There is dead silence all around the table. The Data Entry guys look at each other nervously. A couple of the penguins look like they're trying not to laugh. On Dylan's other side Connor has stopped speaking mid-sentence.

“Um,” says Dylan.

Sid at least has the decency to look apologetic. He lets go.

“Sorry,” he says stiffly. “I just…don’t like other people touching my pens.”

*

“That guy is a freak.”

Dylan managed to survive the rest of the meeting somehow. Connor had a spare pen (of course) and is slightly less insane than his idol so he let Dylan borrow it, and Dylan mostly got through the last ten minutes by hunching over his notebook and studiously not looking at anyone. He feels like his face may never stop burning, though.

“He’s just particular about stuff,” Connor says, shrugging. “Everyone knows about the pen thing, Dyls. I think he’s cool.”

Dylan snorts. Sidney Crosby is objectively not cool, he’s an overly intense weirdo with a stupid laugh you can hear from the other side of the building and a frankly bizarre attachment to office stationery, but Dylan knows what Connor means. He’s, like, alarmingly good at his job (apparently, Dylan's not sure he actually understands what they DO in Special Projects) and ridiculously dedicated to it, and that makes him some kind of God to Connor, probably. They should start a club. 110% workaholics anonymous.

“He’s always nice to me,” Connor shrugs. Dylan rolls his eyes. 

“Of course he is. You’re Data Jesus, he’s prepping you to go join Special Projects when our contract’s up and do all their information wrangling for them.”

Connor makes a face at him. “Don’t call me Data Jesus. That’s not a thing.”

“Whatever, dude,” Dylan says, punching him lightly on the arm. “Good for you. Super intense project guy thinks you’re hot shit, that’s awesome. You don’t want to be a temp with me for the rest of your life, do you?”

He probably shouldn’t have said “with me” like that; it was meant to be casually self-deprecating but it comes out kind of tragic, like he’s moping about it. He just means that they've been working together on stuff like this for a couple of years now, since they left school. They joined the temp agency together and it was Connor vouching for Dylan that got them both assigned to the same project this time. But he's always known Connor will be the first one to move on from temping; he's just too good not to get offered something more long-term as soon as it's available. Connor gives him a searching look.

“You do good work, Dyls,” he says after a moment. “You won’t be a temp for the rest of your life either.” He’s got his serious Team Leader face on, like he’s giving Dylan a life coaching session instead of just a compliment. It’s supposed to be reassuring but it just makes Dylan feel awkward, like he’d been fishing for it.

“Shut up, Davo,” he says, forcing a laugh. “We can’t all be Data Jesus. Hey,” he adds hopefully, “does your crush on Sidney Crosby mean you’re giving up on this Christmas showdown bullshit?”

“I don't have a _crush_ on him,” Connor splutters, turning pink. Which, yeah, means he totally does. Dylan can't decide if it's infuriatingly predictable or devastatingly cute.

“Just as well,” he nods. “The guy's like, super old. Great ass, though.”

Connor makes an inarticulate choking noise and goes scarlet in the face. Dylan hooks an arm around his neck, grinning, and ruffles his hair.

“Ugh, you're the worst,” huffs Connor against the side of his neck, and the low vibration of his voice feels like someone running a finger down the length of Dylan's spine. He hopes the way his breath suddenly hitches in his chest isn't as obvious as it feels.

He guesses it can’t be, because Connor doesn’t pull away. He hums thoughtfully, his mouth brushing against Dylan’s skin, and Dylan suppresses a shiver. “I’ll give up the Christmas showdown bullshit once we wipe the floor with them.”

*

Okay, so obviously Dylan has a bit of a crush himself. It's just a tiny one. Whatever.

*

“He even walks like a penguin,” says Mitch on the way up from lunch a few days later, wide-eyed, as if he finds this quality of Sidney Crosby’s utterly awe-inspiring. “Did you notice? He’s kinda bow-legged.” He sticks his knees out and affects an exaggerated waddle that’s…okay, it’s probably an unkind impression but there’s something in it too. Dylan snorts.

“Come on, guys,” says Connor looking pained.

“Yeah, Mitch,” Dylan grins. “Don’t make fun of the future Mr McDavid like that. You won’t be invited to the wedding.”

Connor punches him hard on the arm and then turns vividly scarlet. Looking up, Dylan can see why; Sid has just come around the corner behind them and is striding – definitely not waddling, shut up Mitch – down the hall to catch up. Did he hear that??

“Hey guys,” he calls, “I wanted a word.”

“Oops,” says Mitch. “Way too awkward for me, I’m out.”

Dylan is seriously considering following him, but Connor seizes his sleeve in a vice-like grip and hisses “Don’t even _think_ about it.”

Sid slows down as he approaches and gives them a slightly questioning look, which is pretty reasonable since Connor is flushed and clinging to Dylan as if he thinks Sid is going to punch him, or as if they're a couple of teenagers who just got caught sneaking into their dad's liquor cabinet. And, okay, technically they are actually teenagers, but Connor is twenty in, like, a month; he's supposed to be the grown up around here.

Dylan feels, horribly, like giggling. And from the way Connor's pressing his lips together Dylan's pretty sure he's battling the same impulse.

“Uh,” says Sid. “I won't hold you up. I just heard your team's planning to get in on the decorating competition this year.”

That snaps Connor out of the nervous laughter. He narrows his eyes slightly. “Yeah, that's right.”

“Huh.” Sid smiles, amused and a little...disbelieving? Dylan can feel Connor tense indignantly beside him, bristling in challenge. “Got anything lined up yet?”

Connor looks like he's trying to set Sid's head on fire with the power of his mind, so Dylan chimes in instead. “We're in the planning stages,” he says vaguely, even though he has no doubt Connor's already got the whole thing strategized by now; it's been almost twenty-four hours since he heard about the competition after all. Dear God, there are probably charts.

“That's good, that's great,” Sid nods at him. “Well, just so you know, my office are the reigning champions, so you've got some stiff competition. And,” he looks Dylan right in the eye, somehow managing to seem like they're nose-to-nose even though he's much shorter than Dylan is. “I take Christmas very seriously.” 

He says it, well, very seriously, and that phrase should be ridiculous rather than intimidating and kind of...hot. Pathological competitiveness should not be an attractive quality in a person, Dylan reminds himself despairingly, even though the death grip Connor still has on his sleeve is an unavoidable reminder of exactly why it _is_ attractive.

“Yeah, well,” he says stupidly. “Uh…”

“Bring it,” says Connor, setting his jaw and glaring back at Sid, and that—well. Dylan hopes his face doesn’t look as red as it feels and seriously considers asking to be transferred to student services until after Christmas so he can get his stupid hormones under control. Or maybe a different agency client altogether. In Antarctica.

Sid smiles, slow and delighted, eyes glittering as if this is the most fun he’s had in forever.

“We always do.”

*

Connor looks as if he hasn’t slept at all when Dylan gets in the next morning. His face is pale and there are dark circles under his eyes as he squints blearily at his computer screen, hunched slightly over the keyboard.

“Uh, rough night?”

“Mm,” he says absently. “Up late making decorations.”

It’s then that Dylan notices the garbage bag sticking out from under Connor’s desk, spilling what looks like paper scraps on the carpet. He sighs.

“Sn-snowflakes,” Connor explains around a yawn. “This place is going to be a frickin’ winter wonderland by the time I’ve finished.”

“How many did you make?” says Dylan, fishing a paper snowflake cutout out of the bag. It’s got glitter on it, because of course it does.

“Uhh,” Connor says. “I lost count. A lot.” Then he bends forward until his forehead is resting on the desk. “Ugh, my head hurts.”

“Snowflake hangover,” says Dylan, half-laughing.

He goes to the break room and makes a truly gigantic coffee, plunking it down in front of Connor and trying not to be too pathetically thrilled about it when Connor moans, “Ngh, I love you.” He’s not quite sure if that’s directed at him or the coffee, anyway.

“You need to actually sleep sometime, you know,” Dylan tells him, leaning against the desk. “Are free movie tickets really worth the stress?”

“I don’t care about the _prize_ ,” Connor frowns into his coffee, as if this should be obvious. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Ah, yes, the everlasting glory of being Christmas decorating champions,” Dylan says dryly. “Every boy's dream.” The everlasting glory of being better than Sidney Crosby at something, more like it. Connor gives him a slightly embarrassed grin.

“Something like that.” He sets the coffee down and turns back to his work, jaw set with determination. “It’s fine, Dyls, I’ve got a plan. We’re gonna destroy them,” 

The now familiar swooping feeling in Dylan’s stomach is immediately followed by a kind of hopeless anguish at himself. Why is he like this? He stays where he is for a minute, watching Connor work and resisting the urge to reach out and run a hand through his hair. It’s standing on end as if Connor’s been combing his own fingers through it, and combined with his slightly furrowed brow and pursed mouth it makes him look like a rumpled owl. It's so cute it makes Dylan's chest ache.

He realizes he’s staring when Connor smiles, raises one eyebrow and says, without looking up, “Don’t you have work to do? If you’re not busy enough I’m sure I can think of something.”

As his eyes are tracing the curve of Connor’s throat into his collar, Dylan’s pretty sure he could think of something too, but he manages to catch himself before he says that out loud. 

This is becoming a problem.

*

Dylan’s been playing a subtle game of keep away when it comes to letting Connor check out the Special Projects office because he’s not sure he can personally handle the inevitable upswing in competitiveness. Either Connor’s lack of self-preservation will stress Dylan into to an early grave or he will actually spontaneously combust from all the intense looks.

It’s getting more and more distracting. Connor’s so dedicated to his job that he refuses to do any actual decorating during work hours, but he’s constantly talking about it, and every time he mentions destroying the penguins he gets this bright, blazing look that makes Dylan fervently grateful he has a desk to hide behind.

Dylan is pretty sure being turned on by Christmas trash talk marks him as some kind of deviant, but okay.

Eventually, though, Connor notices he’s being quietly steered away from the third floor and makes a break for it. There’s no catching up to Connor when he’s determined to get away from you, so Dylan just trails after him yelling “it doesn’t count if you win by sabotage!” Connor shoots a filthy look over his shoulder and keeps going.

When Dylan sees the Special Projects office, he kind of wants to reassess his policy on sabotage, because it looks insane. If Connor's snowflake garlands are a winter wonderland, the penguins have built themselves a winter palace, decking out their open plan office space with so much glitter and fake snow it's hard to tell there's actually ordinary office furniture under it all. Even the carpet has got some kind of fabric laid over it that makes it look shiny and pale, like ice, and around the walls are black cardboard shapes like leafless trees, each one hung with gold tinsel and twinkle lights.

“It's a pond,” Connor says dully. “An ice skating pond. I...”

“What’s Christmassy about that?” Dylan sniffs, but he's well aware the decorations are incredible. There's a reason this office won last year. “Ice skating isn't a Christmas thing, you can skate in Jan—Oh God, I just noticed the igloo.”

Connor passes a hand over his face and shuts his eyes, as if praying for strength. Then he gives his head a little shake and sets his shoulders.

“No, it's--” he takes a breath, visibly centering himself. “This is fine. It's not like they can go anywhere else from here. I just need to do some more research, develop a new plan. We can still win.”

Dylan eyes the giant three-dimensional igloo made of white balloons at the far end of the room and wishes, not for the first time, that he had nice, boring, non-competitive friends. It’s less than two weeks until the institute-wide Christmas party, when the contest winners will be announced. He’s not sure he can survive until then. 

Later that day, Connor breaks with the tradition of a very conscientious lifetime and leaves his desk to come and show Dylan something on his phone during work hours. His eyes are bright with excitement and Dylan is smiling helplessly before he realizes what he’s even looking at.

“This is it,” says Connor. “The game winner.”

Dylan tilts his head and squints at the phone screen, trying to ignore the flushed, triumphant look on Connor's face. It just looks too fucking good on him, and Dylan can't handle this many feelings this late in the day. He's only human.

“It’s very…green.”

“It’s a tree,” Connor says patiently. He jabs a finger at the gold star up near the top. “See? You hang all the streamers off the ceiling and they make a tree shape.”

“Couldn’t we just…you know, get an actual tree?”

“This is better,” Connor says firmly. “Bigger. More creative. We’re in this to win, Dyls, why bother if we're not going to be the best?”

Well, he does have a point.

*

Days go by before Connor mentions the dramatic Christmas tree centerpiece idea again. Someone who didn’t know him as well as Dylan does might think he’d given up on the whole decorating contest thing, but Dylan can see the triumphant look on his face that means he’s probably daydreaming about their moment of victory, and he knows better. So he really shouldn’t be surprised when he leaves the office for five minutes and comes back to find a disaster waiting to happen.

“Oh my God, what are you _doing_?”

Connor jumps guiltily at the sound of Dylan’s voice, twists on the fucking swivel chair he’s standing on, tips forward and almost falls off. For some reason the office is full of people who all seem perfectly aware this is going on and have no problem with it.

“For fuck’s sake,” says Dylan, his heart in his throat. “Get down from there before you break something, you idiot.”

“Calm down, Stromer, it’s fine,” Mitch tells him, making a face. “I'm spotting him.”

“ _You're_ spotting him,” Dylan snaps back. He’s got a feeling he’s being a bit over the top about this, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “He’s twice the size of you, if he fell on you he’d snap you like a twig.”

Connor grins and shrugs. “Soft landing,” he says, which gets him a “fuck off” from Mitch.

Dylan doesn't laugh, even though normally chirping Marner for being tiny is one of his favorite pastimes. He thrusts a hand towards Connor to help him down off the chair, and glares up at him.

Connor blinks at his open palm, then frowns. “I haven't finished yet. I've got to hang the star.”

“Yeah you have,” says Dylan. “At least until you get a proper ladder.”

Connor rolls his eyes. This should be a warning sign – Dylan knows that pissy, stubborn look – but he can't back down now.

“Davo, come on,” he says. “You'll hurt yourself.”

Connor opens his mouth with the look of someone about to say “you're not the boss of me!” and then shuts it again with a click of teeth. Instead he turns, the chair wobbling alarmingly, and airily asks Mitch to pass him the tape as if Dylan isn’t there.

Dylan grits his teeth. “ _Connor_.”

“Grow a pair, Strome, he’s fine,” Maroon calls from the desk in the corner. “Christmas is a man’s game “ Dylan just stares at him.

“I’m embarrassed for you,” he says flatly. “Do you even work here?”

“Give it a rest,” Connor snaps, scowling. “I'm a grown-ass man, I'm not going to die from falling off a chair. Don’t be such a fucking downer.”

Ouch. Just as Dylan thinks he’s going to have to actually start a fight and haul Connor bodily from the chair, Hilary appears in the doorway carrying a stack of paperwork. She looks up at Connor standing on the chair with an amused expression and says mildly, “I wouldn’t let Crosby catch you doing that. He’s obsessive about OH&S.”

Of course he is, Dylan thinks, and is briefly annoyed at the stricken look that flickers across Connor’s face. It makes him look young. Younger than he usually looks, that is.

“Oh yeah,” Hilary goes on, nodding. “He fell off a table putting up Christmas lights a couple years ago and cracked his head on the wall. Got, like, a concussion or something and ended up off work for ages.”

Who the fuck gets a concussion putting up _office Christmas lights_ , Dylan wonders. Nobody is that Extra. Then he looks up at Connor and realizes he knows at least one other person who is most definitely that Extra.

Connor looks like he’s considering the words “off work for ages” very carefully. Then he starts gingerly climbing down off the chair, glancing nervously at the door as if he expects Sid to appear out of nowhere and look disappointed in him, and Dylan guesses the stupid hero worship thing might have its uses.

“I’ll bring a ladder in tomorrow,” Connor says, lifting his chin as if it was a decision he’d come to all on his own, just by coincidence. He is very determinedly not looking at Dylan. And it’s fine, Dylan thinks. The Crosby crush or whatever is fine if it’s going to make Connor think twice before doing stupid reckless shit.

He kind of wishes _his_ opinion was a compelling enough reason for Connor to be more careful, though.

*

When Dylan gets in the next day, early enough to beat almost everyone in, he’s stopped at the door by eight bags of fake snow and about a ton of green and gold tinsel.

“Oh good,” says Connor brightly, braced on the second top step of a very sturdy looking step ladder. He’s holding a gigantic glittery star in one hand and a bent paperclip in the other. “You can hold this for me while I shift the roof tiles.”

There's a brief moment when Dylan could say something about the ladder but Connor's smile looks so tense and brittle around the edges, as if he's expecting a fight, that he doesn't have the heart.

Dylan climbs over the decorating supplies with some difficulty and holds the star while Connor reaches above his head to push at the polystyrene floating ceiling tiles. The soft t-shirt he's wearing slides over the muscles of his shoulders and rides up a little to expose a sliver of skin above his hip. Dylan averts his eyes. Eventually.

He concentrates on the star in his hand, to which Connor has attached the unbent paperclip like a hook. “What happened to the tape?” he says, going for light and casual and wincing slightly at how rough his own voice sounds. Connor doesn't seem to notice.

“I thought a hook would be neater,” he says, huffing as he jiggles the ceiling tile gently. “And it'll be more sturdy if I can hook it up under the—ah, there we go!”

Dylan looks up and catches an eyeful of long, lean legs and broad shoulders and, well, let's just say Sidney Crosby isn't the only member of staff who's doing well in the ass department. Dylan swallows hard and closes his eyes. _Get it together, Strome_ , he thinks. _Christmas is a man's game._

“You okay down there?”

Dylan blinks, and Connor is looking down at him, one eyebrow raised and mouth quirked into a small, amused smile. Dylan is devoutly glad he's on the floor and Connor's face is several feet above him, because he's suddenly not sure he'd be able to stop himself from kissing Connor if he was within reach. His mouth looks so soft.

He clears his throat. “I'm just overwhelmed by the joy of the season,” he deadpans, waving a hand at the piles of tinsel. Connor laughs.

“Okay, maybe I got a little carried away,” he admits.

“You? No way.”

He means it to come off light and teasing, but he must still be upset about yesterday because it’s way more bitter than he intended. Connor definitely notices.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I know it’s stupid. I just...I just really want to win.”

Dylan looks up at him. With the buzzing fluorescent light behind him turning his hair into a fuzzy golden halo he really does look like Data Jesus for a moment, although Dylan is immediately embarrassed to have even thought that. Connor's brow is furrowed and his mouth twists into an anxious shape, and Dylan wishes he cared as much about his own wellbeing as he does about what other people will think of him.

Connor looks as if he’s grappling with some kind of decision. “Dylan,” he says, in a serious, heavy kind of way, then stalls.

Dylan feels like he’s balanced on the edge of something, a moment that’s uncertain in a different way than standing on a swivel chair, but maybe just as dangerous. He can feel a lot of unspoken things rising up in the back of his throat, so big and important that it feels like something solid is stuck there and choking him.

The thing is, he knows he has to say something eventually. Connor’s going to notice, and then he’ll have to let Dylan down easy because he’d rather tackle something head on than just ignore it until it goes away like a normal person, and that will be utterly humiliating and awful for both of them. He’s probably on the verge of shutting Dylan down already, and just looking for the kindest way to do it. The idea of having that conversation makes Dylan want to curl in on himself like a hedgehog, all spiky on the outside.

He forces a smile. “Nah, it’s fine,” he forces out, as light as possible. “I guess it must be rough being such an underachiever. You’re probably due for a win.”

It’s a weak chirp, but Connor snorts anyway, and the heavy moment sinks out of sight like a stone underwater. Dylan can still feel the burden of it weighing on his chest.

“Shut up and hand me that star,” Connor says. “And grab the green streamers while you’re at it.”

*

“Shiiiiit,” says Mitch slowly. Dylan has to agree.

The streamer tree is enormous, cupped by the horseshoe of desks and spreading across the entire middle of the room. The gold star winks cheerily in the glow of the fluorescents, hooked so neatly into the ceiling that it looks like it’s hanging in mid-air. Green streamers droop gracefully beneath the star like a festive circus tent, tethered to the desks around it in a perfectly symmetrical cone shape. In between the ribbons of green hang long chains of tinsel in green and gold and bright fairy lights that wink and sparkle like tiny stars.

Underneath, in the neat circle of the tree’s base, Connor’s piled empty cardboard boxes, wrapped in red and gold wrapping paper to look like actual Christmas presents. Sprinkled over and around them is the fake snow, piled in drifts at the sides and spreading across the carpet.

It looks…it looks like a Christmas tree, but _better_. It’s actually beautiful, in a way Dylan didn’t think office Christmas decorations could possibly be. Connor is frowning up at it all critically, and Dylan feels a rush of affection so sudden and intense it's almost overwhelming.

Connor frowns and squats down to fuss with the snow.

“I should’ve got more of this stuff,” he grouses. “There’s gaps.”

Dylan crouches down next to him and bumps his shoulder against Connor's. He's warm and solid and Dylan is trying really hard not to get emotional about Christmas decorations like some kind of dork. He knows it's not really the Christmas decorations that are making him feel like something warm and heavy is stuck in his chest, but he's trying really hard to ignore that, too.

“Davo,” he says quietly. Connor’s hands still in the middle of adjusting a snow flurry. “It looks amazing.”

You’re amazing, he definitely does not say, or anything else stupid and sappy like _God damn it, you ridiculous perfectionist, I'm so in love with you_.

Connor gives him a weird look, frowning slightly, almost as if he's annoyed, which makes no sense.

“I mean it,” Dylan insists, trying to look as sincere as possible. “There's no way we won't win.”

“Yeah,” says Connor, smiling tightly. “Sure.”

*

People think Connor’s shy because he’s polite to strangers and kind of awkward, but Dylan knows better. So he knows something’s up when he follows him into the stationery supply closet and Connor won’t meet his eyes even though they're barely a foot apart. He stares down, kicking aimlessly at the corner of the metal shelving unit.

“What’s up?” Dylan asks lightly. He feels guilty somehow, as if he’s done something wrong, although he can’t for the life of him think what it is. “Not suddenly feeling bad about humiliating your crush in the decorating contest, are you?”

Connor makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat. “I told you,” he says irritably, “I don’t have a crush on Sidney Crosby.”

Dylan laughs. “Come on, Davo, you know I’m just teasing.”

Connor closes his eyes and exhales hard through his nose, lips pressed together in a tense line, and that's...yeah, he's definitely annoyed _at Dylan specifically_ about something. Dylan thinks back to that morning, alone in the office together, and feels sick. This is it. The moment where Connor tells him the pathetic pining is totally obvious and embarrassing and he wants him to back the hell off.

Connor does not back the hell off. He finally looks up, and then steps forward right into Dylan's space. It's not like there's much room in the tiny closet that isn't Dylan's space – there's only just enough room for two people between the shelves – but it makes Dylan's breath catch in his throat all the same. There's space between them, but he can feel the heat radiating off Connor like a touch.

“Teasing,” Connor says, frowning. He's so close he has to tip his head back the tiniest bit to look Dylan in the eye. If Dylan wanted to kiss him right now it would take only the smallest movement to bring their lips together.

“Um,” says Dylan. Who is he kidding, of course he wants to kiss him.

Connor takes a deep breath, opens his mouth to say something, and then stops, licks his lip unconsciously as if he's nervous. Dylan's eyes follow the movement helplessly. He doesn't know what to do. He feels like every muscle in his body is simultaneously frozen and screaming at him to do something, _anything_.

He feels Connor's fingers close around his wrist. “Dylan,” he says quietly.

As if the sound of his name is the trigger he was waiting for, Dylan's body finally decides to act. Before he can think clearly enough to realize it's a bad idea, he's leaning forward those last few insurmountable inches and pressing his mouth against Connor's, like he's been aching to do for weeks.

And it's as if that was exactly what Connor was waiting for too. He doesn't tense up or pull away. He leans in, his grip on Dylan's wrist tightening, until Dylan's back is pressed against the door and kisses him back. It's hard and urgent, all scraping teeth and bumping noses and Connor's free hand twisted in the front of Dylan's shirt, and Dylan has no idea how this is happening but he lets himself be carried along with it. He slides a hand around the back of Connor's neck, trying to pull him still closer, and tilts his head to get a better angle on Connor's warm, wet open mouth.

He slots a leg in between Connor's and leans in, pressing their hips closer together, and Connor hisses against him. Dylan's heart is pounding so fast he feels like he's just run a mile; he can't quite bring himself to pull away completely but he pauses and says breathlessly, “Is this okay?”

Connor leans back just enough to stare at him. “Are you joking?” he says hoarsely. “I’ve been waiting for this for weeks.”

“What?”

Dylan's pressed up against the door with Connor plastered so tightly against him he can barely move, and yet he feels a bit like he's falling through empty space. He stares at Connor, uncomprehending, while his brain struggles to catch up. Connor is looking back at him, slightly flushed and bright eyed, but smiling.

“I wasn't sure if you...you know, if you liked guys,” he says. His smile is a little lopsided, mouth red from all the kissing. “And then you said that thing about Sid's ass and I thought, well. Okay then. I've been kind of throwing myself at you ever since, did you not notice?”

Dylan blinks at him. “I... _what??_ ”

Connor laughs. “I guess not. Oh my God. You're such an idiot.”

Dylan is pretty sure he will just be confirming that assessment if he says “what” a third time, so instead he splutters, “ _Why_?”

“You've been staring at me with, like, cartoon heart eyes for weeks, Dyls. And this morning I felt…I thought we were finally going to _talk_ about it,” Connor scrunches up his face in frustration, “but you acted like there was nothing to talk about, so I thought maybe I’d imagined the whole thing. And then you tell me my fucking... _Christmas decorations_ look amazing as if you...as if you're confessing some heartfelt...and I just...” he scrubs a hand over his face. “Were you ever going to make a move or...?”

“Connor,” Dylan says. “What the fuck.”

“I thought for sure you were gonna catch on when I said I could find something for you to do if you weren’t busy.”

Dylan feels like his brain is short circuiting. He can't think of any more alternative ways to say “what” so he just blinks a lot. Connor releases his hold on Dylan's wrist and reaches down, lacing their fingers together.

“But, I mean,” he goes on, grinning now, “thanks for asking.” The “you dork” is unspoken, but strongly implied. 

He looks so fucking pleased with himself that Dylan has to kiss the smirk off his face. His brain re-engages just enough to think _oh wow_ before thinking coherently becomes secondary to getting his free hand knotted in Connor's hair and kissing the hell out of him. Just the one, though. He finds he kind of likes the hand-holding thing, especially when Connor uses it to pin Dylan's arm to the door above his head, politeness giving way to that competitive streak again. It feels like Connor has decided to be the best at kissing like he's the best at everything else, and that is just fine as far as Dylan is concerned.

Then the hand that was griping the front of his shirt drops lower, and maybe it's not just kissing after all.

“We can’t…we can’t do this in a fucking supply closet,” Dylan says, laughing a little wildly, even though he's not sure office decorum is enough of an incentive not to. Connor blinks at him.

“Do you want to stop?”

“No,” Dylan admits. Connor grins.

“No one’ll miss us,” he says. “I haven’t taken my fifteen minute break yet.”

“You never take your fifteen minute break.”

“Mm, so I’ve saved up a few.” He drops to his knees, just like that, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world and isn’t making Dylan’s heart try to turn itself inside out. Connor smirks up at him like a challenge, that spark of competition lighting up his face and nope, he is definitely not shy. “Bet I can ruin you in less, though.”

*

It takes them a while to actually get to the Christmas party.

When they finally turn up, half an hour late and a little rumpled and pink-cheeked, Mitch bounds up to them so enthusiastically that Dylan has a flash of panic. It's not that he thinks Mitch will have a problem with them being...together or whatever this is, more that he'll never fucking shut up about it again. He puts a hand up to his neck before he can stop himself, suddenly sure he's got a really obvious hickey or something, and Connor gives him an amused look.

“Have you seen Crosby’s _tie_?” Mitch says gleefully, utterly oblivious.

He points across the function room to where the Special Projects guys are all clumped together against the wall, looking more relaxed than Dylan's ever seen them. Sid's even taken his jacket off, although he's still wearing a tie, and next to him the tall sleepy guy – Geno, Connor explained earlier, because he knows everything about Special Projects – has his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and his tie undone already, even though the party hasn't been going that long. Whatever he's saying must be hilarious, because Dylan can hear Sid's stupid laugh from across the room.

He realizes, scanning the group, that the penguins seem to have relaxed their strict dress code for one night only, and everyone is wearing a whimsical Christmas themed tie which is… it’s embarrassingly cheesy, to be honest. Some of them are embracing the absurdity, but Sid looks faintly uncomfortable about it when Geno tugs on his tie and says something, grinning. It's blue and white and sort of…sparkly? Well, it's pretty dorky, but Dylan isn’t sure what’s so hilarious about it. Then Geno lets go and Sid turns slightly, and Dylan realizes the tie is covered in cavorting cartoon penguins.

Mitch lets out a squawk of laughter and Connor gets the giggles, collapsing against Dylan’s shoulder.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, “fucking penguins.”

“You are the worst people I have ever met,” Dylan tells them. But he can't help laughing.

*

The decorating prize goes to the EDMAS team. Mitch is outraged.

“Who the FUCK are the fucking EDMAS team?”

“Uhh…Educational Delivery, something and something,” Segs from Student Welfare explains on his way past with two cups of punch. Dylan is not sure whether to be disturbed or impressed that he's still sticking with the elf costume. “They’re down in the basement and they rigged their whole floor up with fairy lights. It’s pretty sick, actually, I’m amazed any of them can still see after all the blinking and flashing,” he wanders off and Hilary sidles up to them with a sly smile, waving two movie tickets.

“Everyone always forgets about the girls,” she says smugly.

“You!” Mitch gasps. “You traitoress. I didn't even know you guys were entering!”

Hilary pretends to examine her nails. “All's fair in Christmas and free shit, Mitchy. Amanda's got an in with Special Projects and it was easy to get Stromer to spill on your plans when he was sulking. We had you all exactly where we wanted you.”

Dylan frowns, thinking back to standing in sad reindeer antlers in the break room while Hils and Amanda got him so focused on Special Projects he forgot any other departments existed. Connor gives him a betrayed look.

“They were sneaky,” Dylan says, defensively. “It wasn’t my fault, they double teamed me!”

“Mind your phrasing,” says Hils. “But yeah. Obviously. Boys are too fucking easy.” She and Amanda high five without even looking at each other. “Let us know when you kids are ready to play with the grown-ups.”

Connor slumps. “I can't believe it,” he says. “I made a hundred and thirty paper snowflakes! I could've concussed myself falling off that chair!”

Across the room, Sid seems to be taking the loss hard as well. He's sulking over a cup of punch while the other penguins apparently try to cheer him up. Over a Christmas decorating competition. This place, Dylan decides, is ridiculous.

“Don’t worry Davo,” he says, throwing an arm around Connor's shoulders. “I’ll take you to the movies.”

Connor huffs. “The movie tickets were so not the point,” he says sulkily. 

Then he presses his face into the curve of Dylan’s neck and sighs, and Dylan’s pretty sure now that he knows exactly the effect he’s having. He lets himself shiver this time and feels Connor smile.

“But okay,” he says. “It's a date.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on whim and almost zero research because I am Christmas trash and I have a lot of feelings about these dorks. Also I'm Australian and a) have known about hockey for about three months, and b) have worked in administration in Australia, not the unspecified North American location (with mostly Canadian and some American staff members?!) in which this story is set. Please forgive the handwaving of details and anything that seems too unrealistic; *whispers* I'm making it up. I have had a hot pro-athlete colleague who was unreasonably competitive about the office Christmas decorating competition, though :D
> 
> And yes, the “SOMETHING IS WRONG??!” post-it is real. Too real T_T


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